


The Casulaties of War

by thecat_13145



Category: Captain America (Movies), Casablanca (1942)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Character Death, Father-Son Relationship, Suicide Attempt, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-02-05 12:13:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1818070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecat_13145/pseuds/thecat_13145
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve has a rocky reunion with his father</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For [URL=http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/18271.html?thread=42781535]This prompt[/URL] on avengerskink. I'm not going to post it here because it basically gives away the whole plot.
> 
> I ignore canon in many ways, not least of them because if you calculate it out Rick is too young to have fought in the First World War (Legally at least), and I wanted to write something in Casablanca proper and to have it in the run up to Operation Torch. I hope people will still enjoy this.

“Vite, Vite!” 

If Steve had had puff to spare, he would have asked what the man thought they were doing. The torrent of French coming from Dernier suggested that he was doing exactly that, but Steve couldn’t blame him.

The streets of were dark and deserted, as they crisscrossed through them away from the well-lit main streets through Avenues, Alleyways and Courtyards that almost seemed to double up on themselves. Steve was about to ask how much further they had to go, when a hand was flung out and a quiet, but expressive “Merde!” spilt the air.

Their guide pushed his way back to face Steve. He was a small man, with a look about him that said he knew everything about Everybody and didn’t really care either way. His English was good.

“There has being a slight change of plans.” He said, his voice carefully controlled. “Berger,” He pointed the second man, “Will take you to a safe place. I must leave you.” He glanced at “Berger” “Tell Rick,” He said very firmly, “What has happened.”

Berger nodded grimly and as the strange little man pulled a peaked cap out of his pocket and began walking towards the well-lit streets, Berger almost saluted him.

Their new destination was not too far away. Berger led them back the way they had come until they reached a White Building, rising out of the darkness in a burst of light and colour. Berger knocked twice on the door, once above and once below a little window.

The window slid open, letting a crisscross lattice of light fall on to the pink sand.

“You’re early” a voice from the inside began, but stopped when the eyes fell on them. Their guide burst forth with a passionate explanation in French too quick for anyone other than perhaps Dernier to follow. The voice listened before stating, “Rick isn’t going to be happy,” in a tone that meant you could hear the frown, but he opened the door.

They stepped out of the dim streets into a noisy interior. A band seemed to be competing with a thousand voices in a mixture of French and German. The man who had opened the door, a large man with a comb over and a face that looked like it should be perpetually amused, looked them over. He lingered over Steve for a moment longer than the rest, but Steve was used to that by now, even if he wasn’t in costume. His face was unreadable.

“I’ll tell Rick what’s happened.” He said, quietly. “Stay here.”

He walked away. 

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*

The man currently known as Rick Blaine tried to relax as he surveyed his domain. Certainly nothing in his face gave away his inner turmoil and anyone looking at him would have thought that his attention was on a rather rowdy group of young German officers, perhaps expecting trouble.

Rick snorted to himself. He was expecting trouble alright, but not from the rather drunk young men. Tactically, he understood the reasoning behind Allied High Commands decision. If Rolfe was telling even half the truth about the strength of the weapon he’d witnessed being tested in the desert, then it represented a danger to the planned Allied landing and must be eliminated. He certainly could understand the merit of sending along a team who had experience with this sort of thing, and could even accept the presence of a scientific advisor, but Captain America seemed to him to be overkill.

Louis didn’t agree. Louis said that Captain America was exactly what was needed to inspire their men, to assure them that their sacrifices were as important to the Allies as anyone else’s. Rick could see his point of view, but he still felt it was a unacceptable risk. That normally made Louis laugh, listing the risks Rich himself had taken in the name of the cause.

Rick sighed internally. Taking a risk with your own neck was one thing. Being asked to risk your neck and a bunch of kids and old men’s necks (as that was what the majority of Louis’s “Men” were) for a guy in his pajamas was something else. 

He began polishing a glass rhythmically, risking a glance at the clock. The guys should be safely hidden in Emil’s cousin’s bakery oven by now and Louis would be here in few minutes to discuss their next steps. The meeting would take place as soon as…

Carl was signalling he needed to speak with him. Rick put the glass down and wandered casually over to stand by him. 

“The…” He glanced at the guests. “Delivery has arrived.”

Rick was about to ask Carl what the heck he was talking about, they weren’t expecting any deliveries, when the meaning sunk in.

“They’re early.”

Carl shrugged. “Berger said there was an incident. They had no choice.”

Rick nodded. “Alright. I’ll come and see to it. We’ll put them in the back until closing.” 

He began to walk casually across the bar. A local businessman with nothing more on his mind than a delivery which was early and inconvenient. 

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*

Howard glanced towards the main room. “The band here sure knows how to swing.”

“Non Anglais” Berger muttered, glancing nervously towards the crowd. Howard chuckled softly, “we’re hiding behind a potted palm. I think we passed suspicious a couple of hours ago, pal.”

Steve was about to say something to try and ease everyone tension, when the Large man from earlier came through, another man following him. He was tall with a long, rather sad, handsome face that seemed to freeze when he looked at Steve.

Berger began launching not the same explanation, but the man held up his hand to stop him. “Carl told me.”

Rick was proud that his voice didn’t shake. That there was nothing in his tone to imply anything was wrong. It was more than he’d managed with Ilsa and that was just seeing your old lover standing there. 

Not a young man who was almost the spitting image of the wife you’d abandoned. The right age to be the son you’d left behind. “Carl’ll take you in to the store room. You can hide there till closing.”

As they trooped out, following Carl like good soldiers, Rick grabbed the sleeve of the nearest one to him, a young American with an untidy mop of brown hair.

“What’s your buddy’s name? The big blond?”

Suspicions clouded the young man’s eyes and Rick groaned. “Look buddy, even Nazi’s get a name. I can’t call him…That.” He muttered, because the band had paused for breath. The young man’s eyes darkened, making Rick think he had personal experience of the information Nazi’s asked, but he answered anyway.

“Steve Rogers.”

He pulled his arm out of Rick’s grasp and followed his friends out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to anyone who thought I'd left this on a cliff hanger. It's just I was posting this when I was exhausted.

Captain Louis Renault had three reasons for stopping in at Rick’s Café that evening.

The first, and most official reason, was that even with rationing Rick’s was one of a few places in Casablanca you could still get a decent cognac. 

The second, and second most official reason, was to pass on the news about Jacque, Emil’s cousin, to the resistance fighters, who as closing time drew closer and closer would be gathering nervously in the bar.

The third reason, and the reason he would never admit to anyone, was that he was worried. Rolfe had being dispatched with the news as soon as they were certain that it was correct. That it was simply a case of round up the usual suspects for insulting graffiti sprawled on the walls. Graffiti which would be more insulting if the participants could actually spell, meaning that Ivonne was described as a Nazi gardening implement, but that it was still too dangerous to risk moving the Americans. Rolfe had come back within twenty minutes and almost hadn’t got into Renault’s office before he blurted out his fear that Rick was losing it.

Coming from Rolf, who practically worshiped the older man, Louis was inclined to take it seriously, though he had sent the lad on his way with some well-meaning platitudes.

The cafe was in the process of closing up. Waiters piled chairs on tables and swept around the floor. At the bar, a few members of the resistance sat tensely, waiting for them to finish. Carl was guiding the last remaining Nazis out. Emil wiped tables.

Louis stopped by the piano, where Sam was tapping out the verses of “Goodnight Sweetheart.”

His eyes narrowed suspiciously when he saw Renault.

“I was looking for Rick.”

Sam’s fingers didn’t miss a beat. “He’s upstairs. And Captain Renault?” He called as the other man prepared to head up to the small balcony room that Rick used as an office. “I think he needs to speak to you, sir.”

The knot in Renault’s stomach tightened. Sam didn’t like him. Didn’t trust him, blamed him for Rick getting involved in the Resistance activities. If Sam was effectively asking for this help, then things must be bad.

He walked up to the office room. It wasn’t locked. Rick never locked it, despite requests from virtually everyone that it might be a good idea if he did so. 

The cooler evening air came in from the open window. Rick was sitting at the table in the middle of the room, an open bottle beside him. It was not an entirely unusual scene, especially in the first weeks after Ilsa had left, but Renault didn’t believe he’d ever seen the other man this drunk. A photo lay on the table in front of him.

Renault reached out. “May I?”

Rick made an inarticulate noise that Renault would claim to interpret as consent. He pulled the photo towards him.

It was a photo of a woman, not that surprised him. In Renault’s experience any trouble of any kind had a woman at the bottom of it. A young woman in a cheap cotton dress.

Renault prided himself as a Connoisseur of women, both as a French man and a policeman. This woman was not Ilsa. Even if the hair hadn’t being blonde he could have told that. She was a different type of woman.

Ilsa was what his countrymen would call “une belle a se suicider” a woman to kill oneself for, a woman to kill for, a woman to send all to the devil for. She was the woman like Helen of Troy, like Guinevere, a woman who would make history. Things would always happen around her or because of her.

This woman was not like that. She had sprit, even this poor snapshot showed that, but it was of a different sort. This was a woman to fight for, a woman to live for, to wait for. More a Penelope than a Helen. The type of woman who in Ancient Greece would have told their sons and husbands to come back with their shield or else on it. A woman who enabled you to make history.

He said none of this out loud, simply commenting on the snapshot. “Une fille joli”

Rick laughed. “Yeah. Sarah was the prettiest girl neighbourhood.”

“Was she the senator’s wife?” He wasn’t sure why he was so sure that the woman was American. Something about cut of the dress perhaps.

Rick laughed again. “She should have being.” He slumped forward. Louis slipped the photo of the woman into his jacket, shaking his head.

Why, he wondered to himself, did Rick’s admittedly intriguing past have to rear its head at the most inconvenient times?

*/*/*/*/**//*

“Are we keeping you from something, Captain?”

The tension in the air had being evident since they emerged from the storeroom. The resistance fighters gathered were nervous, on edge, even with the news that the incident which had prevented them from reaching the final destination was nothing.

Steve wasn’t helping matters either. Pacing between the bar and the door like a caged lion. Bucky got why he was nervous, but it wasn’t helping matters, as Berger’s comment showed. 

Carefully, he stretched himself out. “So,” He said, conversationally. “Who we waiting for?”

“Le Captain.” Volunteered one of the resistances guys cautiously. “And Rick.”

Bucky took a guess that Rick must be guy from earlier. The American who had being so disturbed by Steve.

“Who’s Rick?”

He had chosen an icebreaker easily. The company fell over themselves to explain.

Rick was an American, born in New York. He owned the café where they were now sitting. He had being in Casablanca for about 2 years, coming here after the fall of France. He had run guns for the Abyssinian and fought with the International Brigades in Spain. Just last year, he arranged safe passage to Lisbon for Victor Laszlo.

Bucky fought the desire to ask who Victor Lazlo was; as it was evident he was something big in the resistance. Instead, he asked how Rick had managed that.

The story came thick and fast. Evidently it was on its way to becoming something of a legend around here. How Ugalt, a resistance fighter had fearlessly and single handedly killed two German Couriers and stolen from them letters of transit. Ugalt had being captured and tortured to death by the Gestapo, but not before he had handed the letters over to Rick. Rick had set up meetings with the Resistance for Laszlo, had taken Laszlo to the airport, had killed a man, though of course that was just rumors.

“And ones you would do well to ignore or forget.” Their original guide had come down. “Particularly as the chief of police has sworn that those were lies. That Mr. Rick arrived to see some old friends on the plane to Lisbon and came back to find the Major dead.”

“Of Course, Captain.”

The little man took his seat at the head of the table. “Rick is unavoidable detained his evening. We must proceed without him. Sam?” he glanced at the other man. “I think Rick might appreciate some coffee, strong and black. And an aspirin if you can locate one.”

Sam frowned, but he got up and headed towards the small kitchen at the back of the café. The little man turned and addressed Steve.

“My name is Captain Louis Renault, French. I apologize there was so little time for introductions earlier.” Steve respond, but it appeared the man didn’t expect him to. “Welcome to Casablanca.”

“Thank you Captain.” Falsworth, tactical bastard that he was had taken Steve’s role. “I wish the circumstances were better.”

“The Circumstances are what they are. We are still honoured to host the Howlin’ Commandoes and Captain America.” He smiled. “But you will forgive me, there is a curfew in Casablanca and it would never do for the Chief of police to be caught drinking after hours.” He smiled. “I would have to fine myself. So, let us get down to business, as the American’s say.”

Bucky’s opinion of the guy went up a couple of notches. He hadn’t thought that Falsworth was American. 

“Rolfe.” He gestured towards a young man, whose grey overcoat didn’t quite hide his Nazi uniform. “I’m aware you’ve told this particular story at least three times, but would you please repeat your version of events for these gentlemen’s benefit.”

The kid, who didn’t look old enough to wear the uniform he was in, nodded and began to speak in clear and strangely confident English,

“I saw in the desert. About 10 miles from the city walls. A great machine. It breathed fire…”

Bucky listened to the kid’s story. If he hadn’t heard similar stories across Europe, heck if he hadn’t encountered Hydra’s weapons himself, he’d have thought the desert air had got to the kid. That apparently was what his superiors believe or were pretending to believe. The disappearance of the patrol was being put down officially at least to resistance activity, not that much seemed to be done about it.

“They know it wasn’t.” A native girl volunteered, her face almost completely covered, but her voice was firm. “But they can’t admit it. Can’t have anyone knowing about Hydra, about that one of the Reich’s favourite sons has turned traitor.”

“Which is fortunate for us.” Captain Renault smiled. “Otherwise we would be considerable poorer from the fines.”

“True.” She might have said more, but there was a commotion behind them. Turning, they saw the man from earlier, Rick Bucky guessed, coming, falling would have being a more accurate description down the stairs into the main room. His eyes roamed the room not even seeming aware of them until he spotted Renault.

“Renault.” He yelled out, lunging across the room towards the other man. “Where is it?”

“Rick,” Renault had got this feet, evidentially trying to rescue the situation. “May I present-“He never got further than that, as Rick had stumbled over to him , grabbing at his lapels, though whether as a threat or to keep him up right, Bucky wasn’t sure.

“Where is it?” He demanded. The resistance fighters and the Commandoes stared confused. Steve was looking like a man who’d seen a ghost. 

“Rick.” Renault looked like he wanted to remind the other man that this was hardly time or the place for a private, drunk argument. But Rick didn’t seem to hear it.

“Where’s Sarah’s picture?”

Steve let a small gasp. Bucky’s stomach seemed to drop about 1000 feet. 

“I know you took it.” Rick’s eyes were burning. “Where is it?”

Renault reached into an inside pocket and withdrew a small photograph. Rick seized at it like a drowning man grasping at a life raft. For the first time, now the picture was back in his grasp, he seemed to realize the others were there for the first time. His eyes fell on Steve. Without explanation he spun around and stumbled, a little more steadily than when he came down back up the stairs. 

Renault looked around the room. “I think it would be best if we called it a night.” He said, his tone leaving no room for arguments. “Carl, can you ensure our guests are kept somewhere safe?”

“Of Course Captain.” 

Bucky pushed his way through as the resistance began to gather up their belongings and leave. He reached out an arm to grab Steve’s shoulder.

“Steve, what…?”

Without a word or an explanation, an almost complete mirror of Rick’s exit, Steve turned and marched towards the store room again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I don't describe things as they happen in the film, but the truth has being twisted to create a heroic story. I hope people will forgive the liberty


	3. Chapter 3

The band was doing their best, but even with the audience joining in with “Knock on Wood” you could still hear that there’s a pretty impressive row going on in the upstairs office.

No one downstairs in the café seemed worried, suggesting that it wasn’t an uncommon occurrence, but that might have also being they could only hear the voices, not the words. From his perch, half hidden behind a curtain, Howard Stark could hear a fair percentage of the words. 

Steve would probably give him hell for listening at doors, but then again, given the way Steve had being behaving since last night, possibly not.

And Steve wasn’t the only one who’d had a shock then.

“…Out of here, Renault.”

“I’ve already informed you that’s impossible, Rick. The risk…”

A sound like breaking glass came through the door. Renault’s voice floated up again, firm.

“Very well. Then consider this my calling in my marker for getting this place back after you made that idiotic deal with Ferrari.”

“Wasn’t my fault Command said a bar was more use to them than two soldiers.”

“No, but creating a place that was prefect for gathering intelligence, where resistance and German can drink and share news and gossip in peace, that was your fault my friend. Whether you intended it to be or not.” He can hear shuffling around the room. “They are staying here Rick, unless you can give me a reason why they shouldn’t.”

There’s silence for a moment and Howard would swear he can hear Renault nodding. “That’s what I thought.”

/**//*/*/*/*/*/*/*

Rick sat in silence, after Louis had left. There was nothing to say. He couldn’t explain it because that would mean going back, that would be remembering. He’d run half way across the world to avoid doing that, and he wasn’t about to stop now. 

He’d locked Joe Rogers up somewhere deep inside him, along with Sarah and Stevie and the life they might have had if…

“You’re an incredible man, Rick Blaine.” He spun around and spotted a man standing in the shadows. A small man, probably the same height as Louis. 

He has a vague memory of seeing him with the…others downstairs.

“You shouldn’t be up here.”

The smile on the young man’s face was old. “Italian Mother, I blend alright.” He shrugged. “Plus I’m fluent enough in Italian, French, German.” He glanced around. “And in Casablanca, not even Americans really stand out.”

He couldn’t argue with that, not really.

“But like I said, if half of what your people say is true-”

“It isn’t.”

“Then you’re a remarkable man Mr. Blaine.” The kid was digging in his pocket for a cigarette as he added. “Almost as remarkable as Joe Rogers.”

He was about to deny it when he looked at the kid, really looked at him and recognized him.

“Stark.”

The young man waved his cigarette around. “Howard Stark. Junior.”

They stood for a moment facing each other, before Howard sighed.

“You know,” he said casually as though they were in the bar downstairs. “My father kept a book. Men who’d come up against him, Men he’d ruined.” He glanced across at Rick. “You were worth two whole pages. Only guy who got more than you was Zebiah Stane and it was fairly personal with him.”

“How do you know it wasn’t with me?”

The kid shot him a look of pure disgust at his stupidity. “You’re alive.”

“No Thanks to your father.”

“True.” Howard Stark pressed his cigarette down into he ashtray, even though it wasn’t even half smoked. Rick resisted the desire to tell him that how much that cigarette was worth on the black market. He doubted it would make any difference to a Stark. “I was there you know.” He said softly. “When they went in to break up the strike. Dad told me to come and watch. Said,” There was a sneer in his voice. “It would make a man out of me.”

The part of Rick that was Joe Rogers, the part that had arrived at the strike that day completely and utterly exhausted because He had being up all night walking his son up and down the stairs in their apartment building because Stevie had a cough and Sarah needed to sleep, was horrified. The kid would have being 7, maybe 8 if he stretched it. That day had being no place for a kid. 

He known Stark was a bastard, had known that long before joining Stark Industries. Stark Industry made the gases that blinded and killed friend and foe alike. The factory had merely cemented his opinion of the man.

The pay had being good, he didn’t deny that. Better even than the Dockers, but the conditions were worse. Men were being slowly, steadily poisoned by the work there. No canteen, they took their breaks at their stations. There was no doctor if you were sick.

That was why the money was good. “Danger money” Rick Barnes had called it, almost coughing up a lung. Death money was more like it.

Joe had being young, naïve, and full of the promises of a land fit for heroes, a new world rising from the ashes of the war. He’d thought if they just talked to Mr Stark, told him about conditions, then he’d do something. 

Howard Stark Senior had done something alright. His hired goons had dammed nearly killed Rick and Phil. And when Joe had organized a strike to try and force him to listen… he forced his mind away from that day.

“surprised you didn’t agree with him.”

Howard shrugged. “Autres temps, autres mœurs.” he observed sarcastically, staring at the cigarette in the ashtray. He spoke again, more hesitantly. “I swear I didn’t know who Steve was until…afterwards. I never met the…the guys. If I’d known…” he trailed off. “Your family suffered enough at my hands.”

Sarah’s face, holding Steve against her chest as she backed away from him, staring at the blood on his hands.

Yeah, you could say that.

/**//*/*/*/*/*/*/***/*/*/*/*/*

Compared to a lot of the places Bucky had spent the last year hiding in, the store room was pretty good. A window gave more than enough light to see by, but in spite of the baking temperatures outside, the temperature was cool.

The guy, Carl had left some books and a pack of cards. Dum Dum had got a poker game going, invoking most of the guys, but Steve was sitting on the blanket, staring at the wall.

Bucky checked that the guys were involved in the game and sidled carefully up to Steve.

“So…” he shrugged. “You wanna talk about it?”

“About what?” 

“About your father.”

Steve turned towards him, glaring. “Bucky, you know as well as I do. My father died in 1918. Mustard Gas attack.”  
“Yeah.” Bucky agreed. “And I also remember the photo your mom kept on the sideboard in the front room. And that guy,” He jerked his head upstairs. “Is the spit of that picture.”

Steve didn’t reply. 

“Look Steve. There were always guys who said that your father came home. Arnie Sterwall…”

Steve looked up, his eyes blazing like when he was a kid facing a bully. “Arnie Sterwall was a drunk and liar. My father died in 1918, in a mustard gas attack, Bucky. That’s the truth.”


	4. Chapter 4

There was a strange tension in the air that night. Not the tension of an approaching storm, more the unease of a round up on the Eve of a Nazi visit.

Falsworth, Rolfe and Louis stood over one of the tables, discussing strategy for taking down the weapon and the Hydra soldiers that surrounded it, but every five minutes one of them would stop mid-sentence, staring across to opposite corners of the room. Then they would shake themselves and with a murmured “my apologies” or “Entschuldigung” (or in Captain Renault’s case, nothing at all) they would resume the conversation. 

The black guy they had seen on the first night was sitting uneasily by the piano, but he wasn’t playing, wasn’t even tapping out notes. The other members of the café, Karl and Emil stood by the bar polishing glasses.

Rick, or whatever the guy’s name really was, sat at the end of the bar. He had caused a minor stir when he came down from the office and sat there, but otherwise hadn’t moved or spoken all night. Emil Had put a glass of brandy in front of him, but the other man seemed hardly aware of it. He just kept staring across the bar to the corner where Steve had taken up residence.

Falsworth had being the only Commando to break away to walk almost to the middle of the room, where Rolfe and the Captain were already standing. There had being others around them to start with, but as the evening progressed, they had drifted back towards the bar and Rick.

Bucky snorted to himself. Even without any evidence, they knew where the lines were drawn. Rick or Steve and both were siding with what they knew.

He watched as Falsworth lifted his head again, to stare at Rick and then at Steve, and wondered how long it would be before something broke.

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*

No one had ever called Rick Blaine a coward. Well, that wasn’t strictly true. In his tortured memories of his meetings with Ilsa here, he had a vague memory of that accusation being made. But that had being in anger, a woman lashing out at the man she loved.

No one had ever seriously called Rick Blaine or Joe Rogers a coward.

And the current situation was going to get someone killed. He doubted that either Renault or Rolfe or even the Limey were honestly listening to what was being said. That weapon was dangerous and the desert even more so. 

And the boy, the man, was his son. His and Sarah’s boy.

And Rick Blaine was no coward.

He picked up the brandy that Carl had placed down in front of him and drained it. 

The sound in the room was like a gunshot. Renault, Rolfe and the Brit fell silent. 

He walked across the room and if his footsteps were unsteady, then it could easily have being the brandy.

Steve stood at the edge of the group, the brown haired American beside him, easily a head taller than everyone else. Strange to think the small, weak baby who no one expected to live and this strapping young man were the same.

The blue eyes were the same as Sarah’s as they fixed on him. The same as Sarah’s on that night in New York, the blood dripping off his knuckles.

He took a step closer, holding out his hand. 

“Steve…” He began, but it seemed the kid was Joe’s as much as he was Sarah’s. Or at least that was what the fist that connected with his head seemed to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys, the next couple are vital, but short. I'll try to post more regularly to make up for it (I know that won't be difficult)


	5. Chapter 5

For a moment, everyone was still. No one seemed to know how to react, including the two pugilists.   
Then slowly, almost uncertainly, Rick got to his feet. His hand rose up, touching the side of his face, which was already reddening.

“That’s some right hook you got on you kid.” The resistance fighters would later remember that Rick’s voice had changed. That it was more American somehow. At the moment, they just stood staring, same as the Commandoes.

They all thought they knew how it was going to go. Rick would attach this mad man. But Rick just stood there, his hands hanging at his sides. His expression, his body language all said the same thing. He wasn’t going to fight back. He wasn’t going to hit Steve.

Steve stood there, his face red and his whole body shaking, as though he couldn’t properly believe what he was witnessing. Then without an explanation, without a word to anyone, he turned and walked towards the door.

“Steve…” Bucky began, preparing to go after him, but Renault interpret him.

“No. See to Rick. Get the story.”

“The Story?” Bucky asked, confused. Renault gave a sudden almost manic laugh.

“My dear boy, if you believe this is over now then you are wrong. It’s barely begun and time…” He glanced towards the clock on the wall. “Time is not on their side.”

/**//*/*/*/*/*/*/*

Steve stood in the middle of the street, his whole body vibrating.

He wanted…hell, he wasn’t sure what he wanted anymore. 

A hand touched his shoulder. 

“You need a drink my friend.” 

A voice speaking English low. Steve shook his head.

 

“I can’t…”

He jerked his head towards the café. The voice gave a small snort. “You can’t stay here.”

The hand gently touched his shoulder again. “Come Monsieur. Captains should drink together. We have much to discuss.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's so long and so late. I hope people are still reading this.

“It’s fine.” Rick brushed away the hands that seemed determined to smother him. “I said it’s fine.”

Connina snorted, pushing the damp cloth against Rick’s reddening cheek. Karl and Sascha were debating above him about whether a doctor was needed. 

“Quit fussing.”

Sam frowned at him. The commandoes stared at him, making him feel like a ghost. The kid gave a slight cough.

“Renault said,” He said carefully. “That I should ask you for the story.”

Rick pushed away Connina’s hand and pushed himself roughly to his feet. He moved, his feet feeling like they were in concrete shoes. “I’ve heard a lot of stories.” He said, his voice feeling like his throat was dry. “Most of them accompanied with the of a honky tonk piano.”

He leant against the piano. Understanding, Sam moved over and sat down. He glanced at him. “Play it again Sam.” He muttered softly. “You know what I want to hear.”

Sam frowned and with a shrug that said on your own head be it, began to pick up a tune. Bucky was fairly certain he recognized it as one his dad would whistle sometimes. The one record that Sarah Rogers had owned. After you’re gone.

The expression on Rick’s face was of a man being crucified. “This is the story about a man who came back from a war. Came back to the city he loved, the woman he loved and the child they’d had to together. And he wanted to give that child, that woman, that city, a better world.” He shook his head. “Renault would have called him a fool.”

In a softer voice, he muttered. “Perhaps he would have being right”

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*

Steve didn’t like Scotch. He didn’t like the taste and as the alcohol had no effect on him, there wasn’t really any point to drinking it.

But Captain Renault had ordered it as soon as they reached the “Blue Parrot” and he was staring so intently at Steve as they sat at the bar, with their backs to the girls dancing in outfits that wouldn’t have looked out of place on some of Dum Dum’s pinups, he gulped the glass down more for something to do. 

Renault smiled suddenly. “You’re very like your father.”

Steve suddenly wished the glass in front of him was full.

“I wouldn’t know. He died in 1918.”

Renault’s lip curled. “Captain, do not treat me as though I am a fool and I will return the favour.”

Steve scowled. “We’re nothing alike.”

“Physically there is only a passing resemblance.” Renault agreed. “But you’re both rank sentimentalists.” He smiled, making the word sound both an insult and a joke at the same time. “That I could forgive you for. There are plenty of sentimentalists in the world. But what is worse, you inspire that sentimentalism in others. Even those who would normally had more sense.”

“You don’t believe me.” He said as Steve snorted. “Well suppose I was to tell you that one year ago, you could have rounded up all the resistance members in Casablanca in one night. And that’s including those, like our friend there,” He indicated a huge Arab in a fez walking around the tables. “Who are with the cause because it’s profitable for them. Now,” he shrugged. “I doubt even your intelligence services have an idea of how many men we can call on if we need to. Or how much damage we can do.” He smiled again, a different smile, like he was contemplating something delicious. “That’s mostly thanks to your father.”

Steve snorted again. Renault smiled. “You both inspire people; make us believe that there is a better world beyond the barricades. That it’s worth building them just to find out if it’s true.” He laughed lightly. “And what is even worse is that you normally deliver on that better world, at least for a while.”

Steve shook his head, stubbornly. “We’re nothing alike.”

Renault smiled again. “I’m afraid you’re only convincing me of what I only suspected more.” He took a sip of his own glass. “You can both be extremely petty, extremely obstinate, and all-around pains in the butt, as you Americans say.”

Steve couldn’t help it, he sniggered. Renault looked pleased. “That’s better.” He said, sounding smug. 

*//*/*/*/*/*/**/**//*/**

“By the time the dust settled, two cops were dead.” Rick blew out a cigarette ring. “It was self-defense, the only thing he could have done, but this guy was smart enough to know it wouldn’t make any difference. The might be dirty cops, but they were still cops.” He shrugged. “He had to get out of there.”

“Why didn’t he take his wife and his child with him?” Bucky asked cautiously. Rick snorted.

“He wanted. He tried to. But she was a dame and she wouldn’t leave. She couldn’t overlook that he killed two guys. So he fled alone.” Rick waved a hand idly, cigarette smoking billowing through the air. “Stark gave him $50 and a fake passport. Told him he’d keep the cops away for 24 hours, but if he wasn’t gone by then, then all bets were off.”

“Why would he do that?” Bucky asked confused. Rick looked pained, but it was Stark who answered it.

“Because without him, the union movement would collapse, most guys not having the stomach for that kind of thing.” He shrugged. “Dead or arrested by the police, Joe Rogers would be a martyr. A rallying cry, but if he just disappeared, ran away…” He trailed off. There’s no judgment in the Stark’s voice. Nor is there any really in the kid’s, in Rick’s kid’s face, but the knowledge that what he was saying was the truth twisted in Rick’s gut like a knife. He got to his feet, muttering something that might have being excuse me. Equally it might have being dam.

Sam began to tap out a tune on the piano. Not one Bucky recognized. This was something different.

“In Bars you don’t always get the whole story.” He said, softly. “In Chicago, I met Mr. Rick in a bar. Brought by a man called Logan. He paused. “Don’t know if that was a first or a surname, that was what everyone told him. He ran booze from Canada and brought Mr. Rick with him.” He smiled. “Mr. Logan poured enough booze down him to stun a bull elephant. Then he slipped me $5 to look after him. We got talking. He told me about New York. About how he’d have to leave.” He smiled suddenly. “Dug this tiny photo out of his bag and showed it to me.” He paused and added. “Talked to me like I was a white man.” There wasn’t anything really to say to that, though Gabe looked impressed. “Talked for hours about this girl. About the things she’d called him when he tried to explain what happened. He’d have taken her, but She wouldn’t go.” Sam shook his head. “He looked like a man who was looking for a cause to die for.” He paused and added. “He still is.”

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*

“Mom wouldn’t tell me anything about him.” Steve admitted softly. “I asked granddad about him. He said he was a drunk and bum and we were both better off without him.”

“Rick does admit to being a drunkard.” Renault observed casually. “He claims it as his nationality.” He paused and added. “Although that might be an admission that he has none left.” He glanced at Steve. “I presume you know the story of the letters of transits? Rolf and Miriam never miss an opportunity to tell it to anyone.”

At Steve’s nod, he continued. “The day before Lazlo’s departure, Rick came to me and admitted he had the letters of transit. He told me, and tried to convince himself, that he would be using them.” He smiled to himself at the memory of Rick’s insistence. “I wondered at the time why Rick was so convinced he would need them. He was an American, then a neutral nation and had no definite criminal record here. In theory, there was nothing to stop him returning to America. All he would have to do is present his passport to the American Embassy.” He touched his glass to his own lips. “Rick has always said he came to Casablanca for his health. It wasn’t until…recently that I realized that it may have being the truth.” He paused. “It is no secret that the Gestapo would dearly love to arrest Rick. Leaving aside his adventures with Victor Laszlo, there is a small matter of nine German officers dead in Rouen.” He smiled. “Rick is very good with explosives.”

“My mom said that.” Steve agreed. 

Renault smiled. “It appears to be something you have in common.” He continued ticking off nations on his fingers. “Guardia Civil of Spain wish to talk to him about something that happened in Catalane, the British would dearly love to discuss events in Country Kerry, with him. And I understand that the Italians would not be averse to getting their hands on him to discuss a massacre at Shire” He glanced at Steve. “And it’s very hard for a dead man to return to his own country.”

//*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*

“Your father wrote to me.” Rick let his eyes rest on the dark head that had followed him out of the bar. “Didn’t seem to matter where I was, what name I was using, he always found me eventually.”

Bucky said nothing. Explaining that his father had kept working for the Stark’s, possibly just for that reason seemed pointless.

“He wrote to me in ’25. Told me about Sarah, that she_” he swallowed. “I told him to get hold of Steve and keep him. I was in Canada, but I had friends. They could get Steve to me, and between us, we could keep him safe. There was a cabin…”He shook his head. “It didn’t matter. Ricky wrote back and told me that it was impossible. That Sarah had told everyone I died in 1918. Told Steve,” he sounded hollow, like something had being sucked out of him. He glanced up at Bucky. “I didn’t handle it well.”

The less said about those years, the better. He hadn’t being good, worse even than Casablanca, where he had being a bitter, twisted old man, because he was young and desperately unhappy. Only his old mother’s tenants about the ultimate sin had kept him from putting a gun to his head. Instead he’d look to alcohol to provide him with an end. 

He’d being lucky. He had good people around him, even with the people he’d being dealing with. Logan. And through Logan, Sam. 

“Ricky kept writing to me regular for about three, maybe four years after that.” It was hard to be certain. That whole period existed in a kind of blur to him. He could remember the end of Prohibition, mainly because he remembered Logan pouring all three of them a glass of beer from the truck and observing “It had being good while it lasted.” He had poured some into a bottle to send to Ricky, because he knew that one of the things you were supposed to do as a father was to buy your son his first beer. 

“Then one of the letters was sent back. Not known at this address.” He’d waited for months, event though he known what it meant. Ricky was dead and with him, his last link to Steve.

The kid was staring at him. “The money.” He said suddenly. “The little red book we found in Sarah’s apartment.” He glanced at him. “That was you, wasn’t it?”

Rick shrugged. He had sent money when he could, which, thanks to having few expenses had being often. Ricky had warned him that Sarah wouldn’t accept the money, even if she knew it came from Joe. He’d still done so. He doubted it had being much, maybe $50 in total, but it would have helped. From the kid’s expression, it had helped.

/*/*/*/*/*/**/*/*/*/*/*/*

“Mum did her best.” Steve’s voice was soft, almost uncertain, “But she was never strong and…” He trailed off, wondering how to explain to this man years of cheap boarding houses, which got steadily worse as the years increased. Of washing always hanging over every surface, of grim faced landladies and the remarks of the other boys when they realized that Steve didn’t have a father. Of his mother’s face getting paler and thinner, of the cough that started and just wouldn’t stop. Of her lying in that bed, eventually confined to the poor hospital and eventually a pauper’s funeral. 

And the sense, the knowledge, the thing he had never dared admit even to himself that it was all his, Joe Rogers, Rick Blaine, whatever else you wanted to call him, fault.

Renault’s eyes looked like he understood and at the same time Steve knew he didn’t. He shoved his glass forward. “Same again please.”


	7. Chapter 7

The rest he knew the resistance would have told him the basic outline of if nothing else.

He had stayed in Chicago, working with the same guys he’d worked with during prohibition, or some of them at least. Logan had vanished. Just woke up one morning and the guy was gone. That was just the way things worked in their world.

Sam had stayed, still tapping out rhythms on the piano, and smiling at the johns, but tips were less and times were tough. And then there were other issues.

Chicago might be in the north, but it was still in America and Sam might be the greatest musician Rick knew, but he was still black. 

Last hired, first fired, that’s what they used to say, and eventually Rick realized that the tips in a jar on top of the piano were all the payment Sam was getting. And they were getting less and less.

Sam never got angry. That was Rick. He raged at the management and they responded by firing Sam. 

Rick had wanted him to get mad. To punch him. Hell he’d offered Sam his face, sworn he wouldn’t hit back. 

Sam had just shrugged and said “Thank you.”

He’d nearly rung the other man’s neck then, demanding if he was so weak, so enslaved as to thank the man who’d just cost him his job. Sam had shrugged.

“While I had a job, I couldn’t leave town.” He said simply. “But now, ain’t no one going to hire a man Mr Capone has sacked. Wouldn’t be good for their health.”

Rick couldn’t argue with the truth of that. “So where you gonna go?”

Sam had smiled. “Africa!”

It hadn’t being the first time that Sam had taken him by surprise, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last, but it was the most memorable.

Rick had just stared at Sam. He knew Sam was a smart man, but Joe Rogers had being a smart man, and look where it had got him. Fools’ dreams, like Garvey’s idea of returning to Africa, could seduce the wise and foolish alike. 

But Sam had explained it. 

How he’d come in contact with the Anti Fascists or what made them decide on Ethiopia as the place to make their stand, Rick never knew and cared even less. 

It had being like someone had switched a light on in his head. For the first time in ten years, he knew what to do. Sarah had told their boy he’d died a hero, so he better go and live up to that. 

Getting guns was easy, he had the contacts from the days as a bootlegger. The group, even then, knew how to get people out of the country unobserved. 

And in Ethiopia he’d found friends. Good people, who dreamed of a better world, who believed in it, who were prepared to fight to make it happen.

He had found a cause, which he could believe in. The Fascists were bullies, pushing around anyone who they thought was weaker than them, and bluffing and blustering with anyone they thought was stronger, whether that was the league of Nations, America or even Britain. 

And the worst part was, because people were scared of the communists, they were letting them get away with it. 

Joe Rogers had liked the ideals of communism, but he was never a commie. Rick Blaine could see the attraction of the ideals, but met enough to know that it was as screwed up as any other political system. That didn’t make it enough of a threat to ignore these fascist bastards. 

Saw enough in Casablanca fleeing both sides. 

When it became apparent, even to the most ardent dreamer that they were losing, some of the guys persuaded Rick to come to Spain with them. The war was still there for fighting, they might have lost Ethiopia, but they could save Spain. They talked about the international brotherhood. About protecting a country. About showing the world what these fascists really meant.

Rick didn’t know if he’d believed them. But it seemed he’d found the cause he’d die fighting for. How they persuaded Sam to come along too, he didn’t know. Just turned up at the docks to board the ship whose captain had being persuaded to turn a blind eye to the young men sleeping in his cargo hold, and there was Sam. He never asked what they’d told him and Sam never volunteered it. 

The nearest he thinks they ever came to discussing it was a couple of nights after Brunete. Rick had taken a bullet in the shoulder and they were both lying up amidst the bushes, waiting for night when they might have a chance of getting away. The blood had started coming through the bandages and Sam had been fussing, retying them, while Rick cursed him out. Sam had taken it all in good grace, ignoring Rick’s temper.

“Got to keep it clean. Got to get you back home to that girl of yours and your son.”

Rick had sworn at him. Told him that Sarah was dead and based on his memories of his son, the odds were that Steve was too.

Sam had told him bluntly that he didn’t know that. 

And Sam was right. 

His Boy, his Steve, was alive. Was healthy. Was strong and had a heck of a right hook, if his still throbbing jaw was anything to go. Was a Captain, when the most either Joe or Rick had managed was a Sergeant. Steve was alive.

But this was war. And Rick Blaine and Joe Rogers knew how quickly that could change. 

“Steve.” He muttered softly.

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*

“He’s fought in Ethiopia, Spain, France,” Louis shrugged. “He runs a bar here, officially. Unofficially…” He shrugged. “The man is a hero of the Resistance, the saviour of France” the smile was sarcastic. “Or so the young ones would tell you.”

Steve snorted. 

Louis smiled. “He would never claim to be a good man. A drunkard, a gambler, a womanizer. He’s certainly a stubborn son of a bitch, who won’t listen to reason.” He glanced. “But I suspect that you might be very similar in that respect.” He paused. “He’s pointed a gun at me and done his best to get me killed 34 times in the last year alone, but” He shrugged. “If he asked me to, I’d walk into hell and probably walk back out again thanks to him.” He watched Steve carefully. Steve didn’t react.

 

Louis shrugged. “He is I believe, the only family you have. Most would say that counts for something.”

Steve shifted. “I don’t know anything about him.” He muttered.

Louis smiled. “Wars tend to be good for introductions.”

Steve sat. he fought of watching Rick and Bucky tossing a ball around, or watching him grab Bucky up and swing him up on to his shoulders. He remember the feeling of jealousy, the wish that he had a father. Now he had one and…

The door to the bar flung open and a young man, a Nazi uniform untidily flung on rushed in. he paused for a moment and then spotted Louis and Steve sitting at the bar.  
“Captain.” His French was heavily accented and out of breath. “I look for you everywhere. Things are moving. They are going to the desert tonight.” He glanced at Rogers. “If your friend wishes to have a chance at stopping them, then they must move.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry, I know I suck at this updating thing. I am going to try and do better this year.


	8. Chapter 8

“We’ll buy you what time we can.”

Guns were being dished out in the backroom of Rick’s lying untidily over the roulette tables. “I cannot say for certain how long it will be.”

There was an air of grim finality in the room. Everyone knew the risks. If this failed, then death awaited them, the only question whether it would be a quick one or a slow one.

Louis glanced at Rick. This was his role, rallying the troops, making them believe that the latest foolhardy scheme would achieve something more than death bodies in the market place. To somehow or other inspire them to pull this off.

Instead, he was staring across the room at the blond man across the room, like a spectre at a feast. 

Louis glanced back at the blond and shook his head mentally.

Merde! Americans were stupid!

*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*

Steve watched as Berger strapped guns to his waist. He watched the two women, one completely covered in native dress, the other dressed like a cabaret star, filled bottles carefully with the alcohol and explosives they’d managed to gather.

He watched it all, because it was easier than looking across the room at the man standing there. His father.

Joe Rogers. Rick Blaine. And who knew how many others in between. 

Steve wasn’t the same naïve guy who’d joined up from Brooklyn. He knew that most of the guys in the Resistance had the kind of skills and past that in peace would mean they were in prison, or at least in the grey area of the law. 

This guy, his father, had a roulette table at the back of a café in the heart of French territory. The type and size of place that it was hard to see how he could have got the money legitimately.

He knew nothing about this man. Then again, he knew very little about Joe Rogers either.

Bucky’s hand touched his arm, almost making him jump. Even after the serum, Bucky was the only guy who could still sneak up on him. 

“Remember what your mom used to say?” He said softly. Steve said nothing. Sarah Rogers had said a lot of things about a lot of things. But almost nothing about the man standing over there.

“Be a good man.”

Steve spun around to stare at Bucky, who shrugged. “I know you Steve Rogers,” he said, firmly. “If you don’t do this, then you’ll always feel guilty about it.”

He didn’t want to. It hurt. It felt like it would always hurt, but his feet were dragging themselves across the floor and him with them. 

The dark head stares at him and for a moment, Steve can see the young man who talked Ricky Barnes into lying about their ages and enlisting. The man who had come through a poisoned gas attack, but left something of himself behind. 

There are no words, he realised suddenly. There was too much not said between them to be solved in the five minutes, ten minutes they have before both their groups need to be moving. But he could offer an olive branch.

“Hi.”

The sound from the other man might have being Hi, it might have also being a prayer. 

“Look, when all this is over,” He waved a hand, somehow managing to combine the guns and the bar in one swoop. “We could have a drink.”

For a moment, a look of sheer rapture cross the other man’s face. It was quickly replaced by the usual, long face, but it had being there.   
Rick Blaine smiled. “Everyone comes to Rick’s.” he said softly.


	9. Epilogue

1944

“I’m sorry, Monsieur le Capitaine, but we didn’t know who else to call.” 

Louis waved the apologies away, stepping carefully around the upturned chair. Rick had evidently not surrendered the pistol, which now was being cradled, almost like a baby by Sasha without a struggle.

Glancing down, he picked up one of sheets of paper scattered around the room.

“That came with the mail this morning.” Karl volunteered. Louis didn’t ask if they had read it. He doubted it, but it honestly made no difference.

The top of the paper was a mess covered with crossings out and smudges, the words almost running together, a theme that continued down the page. Louis was enough of a police officer to recognise a letter written in a hurry before a writer's’ courage failed him. his eyes slowly adjusted to the scrawl

“Beginning to see why the army has a standard form for this. The truth is there isn’t any easy way to say this. Your Son, Stephen Rogers (987654320 T42) was killed in action today. I can’t tell you how he died, even for a letter like this it’s too risky, but I can tell you that he died saving a lot of people, possibly all of us. He was almost certainly the best man that I have ever or will ever know. I wish you’d had a chance to get to know him.”

Louis didn’t read any more. He didn’t need to. 

instead, he glanced at Karl

“Where is he?”  
“Up in the office.” Karl added, as a second thought, “Sam is with him, but he’s refusing to talk to him. He asked for you.”

Louis climbed up the stairs, following the older man. He opened the office and nodded to Sam. Rick was sitting at the table in the centre, a bottle in front of him.

Louis glanced at the label.

“Well, alcohol poisoning is slower than a pistol shot.”

Rick glared at him as he sat down.

“I supposed I really should arrest you for attempted murder. Even though you were the intended victim, it’s still a crime.”

“He’s dead.” 

Louis bowed his head. “I’m sorry.”

“My son is dead.” Rick sounded like he couldn’t really believe it. “Stevie…” He swallowed. 

Louis sighed. “I could tell you the things I’ve told a thousand fathers, a million mothers, about their sons dying for their country, for a higher cause,” He was unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. “But I highly doubt that would help.”

Rick snorted. 

“But I can tell you one thing. Do not let his death be in vain.” Rick blinked.

“Stark, I presume the letter was from Stark?” Rick nodded. “Said your son died saving lives. I highly doubt he would approve of throwing your life away.” Louis reached over to grip the other man’s hand, pulling it away from the bottle. “Make his death mean something. Be the man he believe you were.”

it was only later, much later, that he would regret those particular words.

1945

“I don’t think I quite understand you.”

“I think you do.” The Red Cross Commandant folded her hands across her ample bosom. “I will not have my girls subject to police harassment, Captain. They’ve all told me the same story. No sooner than Mr Blaine leaves, than you start. Offering them money if they’ll let you about the persons Mr Blaine is enquiring after.”

“Ilsa Laszlo” Louis interpreted. The Commandant didn’t even pause.

“Before they respond to him. The Red Cross Tracing and Messaging service, Captain, is not to be used as a vehicle for official police searches and they have all assured me, quite correctly that they have refused.”

Louis laughed. “Your charming young ladies have misunderstood Madame Commandant.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

“My enquiry was strictly personal. As a friend of Mr Blaine’s, I am equally anxious about Madame Laszlo’s safety.”

The Commandant didn’t look convinced. “Well, I’ll tell you then the same thing I told Mr Blaine, Captain. Do you have any idea of how many people are missing or displaced in the current climate?”

“A lot”

“over 50 million “ The Commandant sighed. “We are doing our best, but frankly Captain I suspect we will still be getting queries about this for our grandchildren. Madame Laszlo’s name has being sent to our headquarters in Geneva. Should she contact the Red Cross in any form, we will inform her that Mr Blaine is looking for her and facilitate her in any way we can to re-establish contact.” She frowned at him. “But my girls are doing an impossible job under difficult enough conditions without being badgered every day for details of a woman who was last seen heading for New York.”

“You’ve already spoken to Mr Blaine.” Louis asked, a sinking feeling in his boots.

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

The ample lips pursed. “I must say he behaved like a gentleman. Apologized for the trouble he’d caused. Said he was only anxious to find Madame B because he would be leaving the country soon.”

“Did he say where?” Louis demanded, grabbing up his hat.

The Commandant shrugged. “I believe he mentioned something about Italy. Quite a curious remark. Said that the war was over, but the fight still went on.”

“Indeed.” Louis sighed. “If you will forgive me, Madame.” He hurried out of the door into the street and towards the cafe, already aware that he was probably too late. 

Present day

“Thank you for meeting me here.”  
Captain Louis’s thin shoulders gave a gallic shrug. “I get very few invitations out these days, Captain. Even visiting a centenary is quite a treat.”

They stood for a moment, staring down at the headstone.

Scared to the Memory of Sarah Rogers 19-1927

Also her Joe Rogers, her husband 1905 -1918

Also Rick Blaine, brother of the above 1918-1952.

“I couldn’t have afford the stone.” Steve shrugged. “Could barely afford to bury her.” He glanced at the old man in the wheelchair again. “Thank you.”

Louis shrugged again, taking a puff on the oxygen. “It was nothing really. Your father left good money”

“He wasn’t that old.”

“Wasn’t he?” They both paused, thinking of the life that Joe Rogers and Rick Blaine had led. 

“I called them brothers.” Louis continued. “It seemed the simplest explanation.”

“How did he…?”

“Die?” Louis paused. “He was killed in Argentina. The details are still a little unclear, his body was found by some hikers at the edge of the jungle, he’d been dead several days.” He paused. “His friends told me he was looking for Joseph Megels. I confess I believe he found him.”

Steve nodded, swallowing.

Louis thought of the body that Howard Stark had managed to persuade the Argentine authorities to release. The marks of cigarette burns, bruises, injection sites sites still visible in spite of the dissolving flesh.

And yet Rick’s face had being serene. Almost peaceful. More than he could ever remember it being in life.

Louis wished he had more to say. He couldn’t tell the boy that Rick had left Casablanca with one aim, to find a cause to die for, to be the hero Steve had believed him to be. He couldn’t tell him of the months, the years that had followed. Couldn’t tell him that Howard Stark had helped, had given Rick names, dates, places. Details of Nazis who had slipped through the courts, sometimes being actively helped to avoid them to avoid embarrassment. 

He couldn’t tell him about the old friends, about Sam taking over the bar and his grandson still running it. About Yvonne and Sasha making a go of it, now with 30 great grandchildren. About Rolf, shot in the confusion that surrounded the retaking of the city. It would mean nothing to him.

He couldn’t even tell him that half of Ilsa’s ashes were scattered over this grave. In death, as in life, she had divided herself between the men she loved. 

“I’m sorry Captain.” He added almost as an afterthought, “He died a hero. Trying to help people.”

“There’s worse ways to go.”

“Indeed Captain.” He paused and added. “He was a good man. A hero. I wish that made it easier.”

He wasn’t sure when he said that if he meant telling Steve that his father was dead or living without Rick. Rick’s ghost had haunted him for nearly 40 years, still haunted him. Appearing in his mind when he least suspected. That was the worst of these rank sentimentalists. They couldn’t just leave you be, even in death.

“No, it’s fine.” Steve glanced at the stone again. “I wasn’t...I mean, I shouldn’t have expected anything different right?”

“Our lives do not make for old bones.” Louis agreed, though he’s well aware that he is the definite exception to the rule. Nearly 100 and still managing.

Steve nodded. “ Can you just…” He paused. “Give me a minute?”

“Of Course Captain.” His great grandson, hovering confused at the edge of the cemetery hurried over at his gesture, looking relieved. Technically Louis was aware that he should not have left the home, but man who lived as long as him had to be allowed to still make some foolish decisions. 

Steve was standing, staring at the stone. It was honestly astonishing how little like Rick he looked. Rick would have walked away from him, perhaps even sworn at him. Steve just stood like he was trying to make it make sense. Louis wished he could help him with that. 

He lifted his head slightly as a plane rushed overhead. Though it was a bright sunny day, he could have sworn he felt the smoky fog of the airport rising around him.

But the moment past, as it always did, and he was still there. An old man in a wheelchair. And Rick’s son was staring down at him. 

“Thank you again for this captain.” He shrugged. “I guess I’ll see you around.”

Rick should have stuck around, if merely to teach the boy to lie better.

“Indeed Captain.” He held out his hand, watching the other take it reluctantly, like he was afraid he might break it. “It was a pleasure to see you again.”  
He just hoped his lie was less obvious than Steve’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My new years resolution was to be better at posting fan fiction. I think we can safely say I'm failing at that.
> 
> Some things I wanted to get in, but couldn't- Rick could have approached the Red Cross for Travel Documents, but to do so he would have to prove himself as stateless. These were not passports, but were accepted by many countries in lieu of them. They were used both by legitimate refugees and war criminals flee justice. The most common route via which War Criminals escaped was through Italy (hence why Rick is heading there).
> 
> Thank you to everyone who stuck with me for this. I hope you enjoyed it and apologize I am so bad at posting.


End file.
